


The Last Dragon

by Daemon_Belaerys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad guys are not competent or armed with plot armour, Blood, Character Death, Crack, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Gore, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mix of the show and the books., Multi, Naughty language, Non fireproof Targaryens, Oral Sex, R plus L equals J, Rough Sex, Smut, Violence, absent disclaimers, direwolves, feelgood fic, rape/noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys
Summary: Guilty three shot feelgood crackfic. Apparently Targs are not fireproof, and Jon is a badass. A fic filled with 'what ifs' that's based on the show but includes several characters and elements from the books and how that might just switch things around. Standard warnings apply such as smut, wincest...I mean incest, blood, character death, tricky disclaimers. The usual stuff really





	The Last Dragon

**Yes I know I know. I’ve done it again and posted a new fic. Good news is that this was supposed to be a oneshot that grew a bit bigger than I intended so we only have one or two more installments at the most before it’s done and I can get back to focusing on my other fics.**

 

**Today’s disclaimer never arrived as he sadly pissed off the wrong man and ended up in a bowl’o’brown in King’s Landing.**

 

 

**Arianne:**

 

“Another glass Princess?” one of her servants asked her after Arianne had drained her third glass of wine in short succession.

 

“Please,” she said as she held out her silver goblet. _‘How could everything go so wrong so quickly?_ She thought tiredly, _‘may you burn in seven hells Ellaria,’_ she drained her goblet and groaned tiredly.

 

Just a few moons past she had  _almost_ gained an almost passive acquaintance with her father. Oh it would’ve taken years if not decades before she could have even felt amicable towards him, but at least she no longer hated her father for thinking that he wanted to supplant her with Quentyn, instead he had intended for her to become Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms, but of course, that didn’t happen.

 

Viserys managed to get himself crowned with molten gold. And then, out of nowhere popped a young man claiming to be her cousin Aegon Targaryen who had been hidden since the sack of King’s Landing, and he returned with the Golden Company at his back, that is, he returned with half of the Golden Company, his ‘grand’ army had been scattered to the fourteen seas due to autumn storms, so he landed with less than half of its full strength.

 

So her father Prince Doran had sent her north to meet with Aegon and determine the truth of it all and lo and behold, by the time she had reached Storm’s End, ‘Aegon’ had managed to get himself killed from a pox he caught from one of the four and ten whores he had ploughed in a single evening, Jon Connington, ‘Aegon’s Hand and the one organizing the invasion had hung himself after his ‘precious silver prince’ had been found dead.

 

That was when news reached her from Dorne. Ellaria the bitch had murdered her father with Arianne’s cousin and on/off lover Tyene’s help after her father was given news that Myrcella Baratheon had been murdered, and while no true evidence could be brought forth on who had poisoned the Princess, Arianne was no fool. Ellaria was behind it, and Tyene, for all that Arianne loved her as something more than just a cousin had always been devoted to Ellaria who had treated her very much like one of her own daughters

 

Fortunately House Martell had quite a bit of coin, and there had been more than enough men from the Company who had agreed to help Arianne take her rightful seat in Dorne in return for coin, so Arianne had fled back to Dorne with three thousand men from the company, and five of their elephants, without the need for even a hundred of them apparently.

 

Ellaria had apparently thought that Doran’s men would let her, a bastard just murder their Prince and take over. Not so to Ellaria’s chagrin, as both she and Tyene had been subdued instantly and placed in cells, too late to save her father, but at least she still had Areo. She shook her head, what on earth made Tyene think she could bring down that beast of a man with a single dagger?

 

Arianne grinned a bit at that thought. She had visited Tyene and Ellaria in their cells the night she returned to try and get some answers, and Tyene certainly looked like she had seen better days. Instead of dying, the big Norvosi had grunted in pain, swung around and floored Tyene with a single fist to the face, leaving a dark bruise on half of her pretty face, and in the cell beside her Ellaria was sobbing softly while cradling the stump where her hand had once been, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about Ellaria any longer.

 

And so here she sat. Trystane for all that she knew was already dead, either from Cersei’s hand or Obara and Nymeria who had gone after him. Quentyn was in Mereen halfway across the world, either alive or dead, she had no idea and no word had reached Dorne since his last message from Lys over half a year ago. Cersei was demanding her head for the death of her beloved daughter, the Stormlands were in complete anarchy, with remnants from the Golden Company fighting among themselves, and against Lords still loyal to the Iron Throne, while in the Capitol Lannisters and Tyrells were plotting and scheming against each other while also trying to control or bring to he e l the religious nutters that was the High Sparrow and all his little sparrows.

 

The unrest in King’s Landing was a boon for Arianne. It gave her time to prepare, prepare for war with the Lannisters that would eventually come thanks to Ellaria. And it was time that Ari had spent well. All the Lords and Ladies of Dorne had sworn her fealty. Ari had continued to play the charade of a ditzy and lustful ignorant fool that she had perfected since her earliest bed tumbles and flirtations with Daemon Sand.

 

And most had bought it, had gleefully accepted her desires to have a ‘few friends’ stay to serve her, so that she now had a hostage from nearly every House in Dorne. Oh they were given all comforts that a noble guest might expect, but were escorted by her own household guards, too late had her new vassals realized that Ari had played them, and now they would dance to her tune whether they wanted to or not, unless they were willing to sacrifice their children. Ari had already proven that she was willing to kill to safeguard her position by having Ellaria lowered into a crate of venomous snakes, a fitting justice for betraying everything her lover, Ari’s own uncle Oberyn had stood for and cherished.

 

A knock on her door brought her back to reality. “Come in,” she spoke calmly and the door opened, revealing the massive form of Areo. “Yes Areo?” she questioned.

 

“Nymeria and Obara have returned Princess,” Areo said, his deep voice as calm as ever. “In chains.”

 

Arianne felt her eyebrows rise, true she had every intention of chaining them up the moment they showed themselves in Sunspear but having them delivered to her in chains was unexpected. “Please elaborate.”

 

“The bitches tried to kill me,” an angry voice spoke, and sure enough her brother Trystane stepped out from behind Areo. Studying her brother Arianne felt some pity for him. He looked terrible, with dark rings under his eyes, his normally perfectly coiffed hair was dull and frayed, and the redness in his eyes showed that he had been crying, also of note was the bandage around his neck. “Dodged Obara’s spear from behind just in time,” Trystane explained when he saw what Arianne was staring at.

 

“You took down both of them?” Arianne asked, impressed. She hadn’t thought her little brother had it in him.

 

“I did,” Trystane smirked, “I guess Obara didn’t expect me to dodge, and Nymeria was too angry and surprised at Obara attempting to ‘be a greedy bitch’ as she called it that by the time she realized that I was a threat it was too late”.

 

“What did you do to our poor cousins?” Arianne asked while trying to hold in her laughter.

 

Trystane sat down in the chair at the other side of the desk. “Kicked Nym between the legs and then bashed the back of her head into the door, turned around and threw a chair at Obara who backed out just a step too far and fell through the window and into the sea… unless she wanted to be left behind to drown she didn’t have much of a choice.”

 

Arianne couldn’t contain her giggles any longer. “That’s… beautiful,” she wheezed as she tried to stop laughing. “The… mighty Sand Snakes… taken down by a door and a chair.”

 

Trystane let out a slight smile, but still continued to brood.

 

“Go to sleep brother, you look like shit.”

 

It spoke volumes of how Trystane felt that he didn’t even frown once, just obediently gave a short bow and left. “What now Princess?” Areo asked.

 

“I guess I’ll have to go and speak with Nymeria and Obara, inform them that they’ll be enjoying their current accommodations until I figure out a suitable punishment,” Arianne looked shrewdly at Areo for a moment. “While I’m gone I want you to fetch me any man or woman here in Sunspear who has the best knowledge on the various Houses in the Realm.”

 

“Princess?” Areo questioned hesitantly.

 

“War will come soon because of Myrcella’s death, and Dorne stands alone, I must needs be wed, and to a husband with the strength to make a stand against the Lannisters.”

 

“As you wish Princess,” Areo bowed and left Arianne to her thought again. She might never have been prepared to take up rule of Dorne, but she had been an eager student of history, and she knew that in her situation she needed allies. Her hostages would only help so much, and the remnants of the Golden Company in her service would only serve as long as she had gold to pay them, no, she needed a husband, and an army…

 

 

**Smalljon Umber:**

 

Jon ‘Smalljon’ Umber shook in rage as he stared down his two  great  uncles Mors ‘Crowfood’ and Hother ‘Whoresbane’. They’d been arguing for almost an hour now, nearly since the moment his father had given his last breath, the indomitable ‘GreatJon’ Umber laid low at last from a winter chill.  The reason they were arguing was because of that fucking bastard Jon Snow, or rather because of the wildlings he had let past the Wall.

 

“We can’t face those fuckers alone,” he argued for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that evening. He was tired, sad at his father’s death, glad to finally be the Lord of Last Hearth, furious at Jon Snow, and conflicted about having to break faith with House Stark and turn over Jon Snow’s brother Rickon who had stayed as a guest with House Umber for near two years now.

 

“Aye we can’t,” Mors agreed. “But to go so far as to turn Rickon Stark over to Roose Bolton,” Mors glared angrily at him. “Follow through with this decision and you’ll have to make one of us a kinslayer boy,” he spat.

 

Smalljon angrily stood up, finally at his breaking point and swept his hand angrily over the table, sending goblets, plates, food and a bottle of wine to the floor. “And what would you have me do then Uncle?” he snarled, “just sit tight and hope those goatfuckers decide to just sit calmly on the gift and leave us in peace?”

 

“Don’t be daft boy,” Hother said. “We can still marshal nearly two thousand men, five hundred of those are heavy horse.” he stepped around the table and laid a gnarled hand on Jon’s shoulder. “We take them heavy horse and ride to Castle Black and ask Snow what the fuck he think he is doing, Mors can hold Last Hearth in the meantime,”

 

“And you think Snow will give a rats fuck about us?” Jon asked, “He was the one who let the fuckers through in the first place.

 

Hother growled and took out a piece of parchment that carried several seals and signatures  including that and his own father on it,  the last Will and Testament of Robb Stark that proclaimed Jon Snow as his successor . “Jon Snow is your rightful fucking King,” Hother growled angrily. “Maege and Galbart both died so that your father could bring this with him north. You may not know Jon Snow, nor do I for that matter, but I met the lad once in Winterfell, and I’ll be damned if he ain’t Ned writ in miniature.”

 

Smalljon shrugged off Hother’s hand. “Aye, and what happened to Ned eh? Got himself killed in the south just like his son and wife.”

 

Whatever else he intended to say was cut short as Hother planted his fist directly between his eyes, sending him crashing to the floor where he let loose a furious howl of pain as his nose broke. “You watch what you fucking say about Ned,” Hother warned him as he hauled him back to his feet. “You’re not so old that I still can’t put you across my knee like yer mother used to do.” He waited for Smalljon to shakily seat himself into his chair. “You didn’t know Ned like we did, and if Snow is even just a tiny bit like Ned, you can be damn sure that he had a good fucking reason when he let the wildlings past the Wall.”

 

Seeing that neither of his great uncles were gonna yield the Smalljon finally gave up. “Fine, we’ll do it your way, but I reserve the right to say I fucking told you so when things turn sour.”

 

Mors laughed. “You’ll be waiting a long fucking time then boy,” he walked off, laughing loudly.

 

“Right,” Hother said. “I’ll get the men and horses ready,” a sly smirk crossed his face. “Why don’t you go and give your wife a good tumble in the meantime boy, who knows when you’ll get to put your cock into the wee lass again.”

 

“Fuck you,” Smalljon shouted at Hother’s retreating back. “She’s not ‘wee’ you dried old cunt,” Hother’s only reply was to laugh harder. He waited until he was certain his great uncle was away before going up to his wife’s chambers. In truth, he didn’t mind fucking his wife at all, but damned if he was going to let the old cunt have the satisfaction of being right.

 

Three hours later he tried his best to remain calm and composed as he sat atop his horse while Hother and a fair few others were sniggering smugly. His wife Lyessa Woolfield, the younger sister of Wylis Manderly’s wife Leona had not at all been against his desire to have a good romp in the sack, and of course, as often happens, one romp led to another and before he knew it Hother and half a dozen of their men had burst into their chambers to find them fucking with her thrown across their desk.

 

He had endured their hoots and catcalls with remarkable poise, knowing that Lyessa was going to make their lives a living hell when they eventually returned. Smalljon took one last look at his men before spurring his horse into a gallop out of the gates and started the long ride to Castle Black.

 

Only a day from the wall they came across three riders. One clad in Lannister red, the next one a big hulking woman in fine armour and gilded sword at her side was one that the Smalljon recognised. It was the woman rumoured to have murdered Renly, and who had been taken into Lady Stark’s service, and the one who had made off with the Kingslayer, the last rider was hunched over her horse, keeping her face hidden underneath her hood.

 

“Brienne of Fucking Tarth,” Smalljon hollered crudely as he, Hother and their riders surrounded the trio. “Always thought you were a dumb cunt when I met you, but I didn’t think you were  _ this _ fucking stupid… coming North after what you did.”

 

“I am fulfilling the wow I made to Catelyn Stark,” Brienne said icily as she drew her longsword, smoky sipples along the blade showing its true nature of Valyrian steel.

 

“And what wow was that?” Smalljon spat. “Running off with the Kingslayer? Thereby losing us the war.”

 

“Lady Stark sent me with Ser Jaime so that her daughters would be returned to her.”

 

Smalljon made a great show of looking around in bewilderment, causing several of his men to snort with laughter. “Well fuck me… I must be going blind, as I see no Sansa or Arya Stark here.”

 

That was when the third rider raised her head and lowered her hood. The Smalljon felt all the hot air in his chest leave him. The young woman was dirty, her hair frazzled, and her clothes had definitely seen better days, but Gods help him, that was Catelyn Tully’s eyes staring at him with contempt set in a younger and prettier face. “Lady Sansa,” he gasped.

 

“Smalljon Umber,” she said crisply. “I remember last time you visited Winterfell, you passed wind in the great hall and soiled your trousers in the brothel attempting to open your belt if the tales I heard the next morn have any truth to them.”

 

Smalljon glowered while doing his best to ignore how is great uncle howled with laughter, and if he wasn’t so flustered he’d almost be worried that Hother would fall from his horse. “I had thought to find you in Winterfell Lady  _ Bolton _ **_ ,  _ ** or is it Lannister mayhap? It’s so difficult to remember these days.”

 

The look Sansa returned could have frozen a lake. “I’d have thought a man as smart as yourself would’ve understood that I was in no position to avoid  _ either _ of those marriages, then again, considering how the only way to have an intelligent conversation with an Umber is to ply him with a barrel of mead I should’ve known better.”

 

“She’s got you there lad,” Hother said as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “What my foolish nephew meant was simply that we thought you a prisoner of the Boltons,” Hother turned a sharp gaze upon the Smalljon, “isn’t that right  _ nephew _ ?”

 

“Yes, my apologies, Lady Sansa,” Smalljon said through gritted teeth while sheathing his sword. “Still, might I enquire as to why you are here?” he asked, his glance at Brienne speaking the unspoken words of ‘ _ with her,’ _

 

“Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick were the ones to help me escape Winterfell,” Sansa answered their unasked question. “And my brother Jon is Lord Commander of the Watch.”

 

Before the Smalljon could reply, Hother had laid a calming hand on his arm. “Then we shall escort the three of you,” he said. “The roads aren’t safe these days, and we have business with Lord Snow ourselves.”

 

Neither Sansa, nor her two protect o rs seemed particularly pleased at the prospect, yet realized the futility of refusing and so joined their party, keeping in the middle of the formation, not offering words to anyone but themselves.  The Watch knew they were coming that was certain. While they were perhaps an hours ride away when they laid eyes on Castle Black, and were greeted by the blast of a horn, The entire watch and the  _ wildlings _ there were well prepared for their arrival.

 

The gates were closed and dozens of men stood ready on the ramparts with bows drawn, aimed unerringly straight at them. “Who are you who comes before Castle Black so armed?” a reedy looking man with shoulder length brown hair and sullen look shouted down at them.

 

“Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth,” the Smalljon shouted, “I’m here to speak with Jon Snow.”

 

Moments later the door opened, and the Smalljon, and a fair few others let out shouts that would’ve gotten their ears twisted if their mothers had been there. A  _ fucking _ giant, a real live fucking giant was standing there, and if the sword he held in his hand was anything to go by the blacksmiths in Castle Black had certainly been busy. A slab of sharpened steel almost a foot wide and eight feet long gleamed in the sunlight and beside the giant stood a man that was almost as a ghost from the past.

 

Clad in chain and leather stood a man that could only be Jon Snow. He had Lord Eddard Stark’s long face, hard and cold, seemingly carved out of stone or ice. His dark hair was tied back in a bun but it was the eyes that stopped the Smalljon in his tracks. So dark they almost seemed black, the eyes was the only feature on Jon Snow that seemed to have any expression at all, and the way they glinted was just unnerving. The was something… wild, almost predatory about those eyes, a hidden darkness waiting to be unleashed, ‘ _ those eyes don’t belong on a man,’ _ the Smalljon thought nervously. And lastly, standing by Jon Snow’s side was the last of the fabled direwolves of House Stark.

 

He had heard tales of Snow’s own wolf called ‘Ghost’ from Robb Stark. When they had found the pups the white wolf had been the runt of the litter, though looking at it now the Smalljon would’ve called any man who hinted at that  _ beast _ being a runt for a bloody fool. It was almost as big as his own damn horse, certainly bigger than the wolf that Rickon Stark was keeping with him at all times in Last Hearth, and from the look of it those teeth that were bared threateningly at them would have no problem tearing a man’s arm off, nor would chainmail do any good from the look of it, that hungry maw would have no problem biting through it.

 

“I am Jon Snow,” he said calmly, an unspoken warning hanging behind his words. “I’ll speak with you Lord Umber, but I’ll not have you bring a small host inside the castle, bring with you ten men if you must,” and then he turned and walk back into the castle, his wolf following him obediently, and the Smalljon let out a small sigh of relief.

 

“Fuck me,” Hother let out an identical sigh. “I’ll be damned if that isn’t Rickard Stark’s grandson.”

 

 

**Jon Snow:**

 

“Edd, see to it that Lord Umber is escorted into the hall,” Jon barked at Edd who gave him a nod. “Tormund, Ser Davos, you’ll come with me,” he turned for a brief moment to look upon Wun Wun, the gentle, but dangerous giant had played his part perfectly by simply standing there. “Try not to frighten them too much Wun Wun,” Jon said softly.

 

The giant looked at Jon for a moment, his large eyes boring into Jon’s own before a smile that looked strange on such a large being stretched across his face. “Snow,” he said with a nod.

 

Jon, Tormund and Davos all took a seat along one of the tables in the hall, swiftly joined by both Val and Lady Melisandre, while Ghost simply lay down in a corner, docilely, but watching attentively for any threat. ‘ _relax my friend,’_ Jon thought calmly. Ever since he died he had been much closer to Ghost. For a long time he had had ‘wolf dreams’ and though he had suspected that he was a warg, if the tales of Mance or Ygritte was anything to go by he had never actually done anything to try and hone his gift, and it was only the shock and pain of the betrayal, the pain of the knives sinking into his body, and the panic of feeling his life ebbing away that had made him warg into Jon instinctively. Melisandre’s magic had been even worse. He had been ripped out of Ghost’s consciousness and back into his own body, but while everything had been so… _simple_ when he ‘was’ Ghost, things were not so now. He knew what was happening to him. Mance had warned him of how a warg not only put himself inside an animal, but also put the animal within himself, and Jon had certainly put the ‘wolf’ inside him.

 

His sense of smell, his sight and his hearing was sharper than he’d thought possible, and then there was the… _urges_. His temper, always a dangerous thing when properly stoked was much closer to the surface now, and he tended to think of things differently. ‘friends’ or trustworthy allies were almost instinctively labelled as ‘pack’ such as Edd, Davos or Tormund, while Melisandre made his ‘hackles’ rise. He did not, _could not_ trust her. She smelt _wrong,_ but at the same time she had saved his life, and as such he felt a debt was owed to her, nor did he relish the idea of letting her leave his sight. At least when he could keep an eye on her there was less of a chance of her stirring up trouble, and lastly there was the biggest trouble of all. _Val_ , he liked to think of the young wildling beauty as a friend. He had denied Stannis’s offer, out of several reasons, but the biggest reason for his refusal had been Val. Not that Jon would’ve minded one bit to be wed to Val, to have her for himself, to bed her every night, but he would not force her to his bed, and certainly not so that another man, a southerner could use him and her as a means to getting an army. But _now_ , now his instincts were telling him to throw her over the nearest surface and fuck her till neither of them could even stand. She was a fertile young female, well suited for breeding sons and daughters, and it was all he could do not to give in to the temptation, he knew enough from Val’s looks or her inviting smell that she wouldn’t at all mind if he was to ‘steal’ her.

 

Before long Edd entered with a small group of men, one of them was the Smalljon Umber, while another one was one of the Greatjon’s uncles if Jon remembered correctly. A few other men and two women were also included. The biggest of the two women was clad in high quality plate from top to toe, and while she would never be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty she was far from unattractive if Tormund’s starstruck gaze was anything to go by, it was the other woman however who had stopped Jon as dead as an arrow striking his heart.

 

At first he thought that it was Lady Catelyn come back to haunt him, but he quickly noted the differences that pointed out that it was his sister Sansa that was staring back at him with watering eyes. “ _Sansa_ ,” Whether it had been him or her that had moved first he didn’t know, all he knew was that his sister was alive, and in his arms.

 

“I’m so sorry Jon,” Sansa cried softly to him over and over, her arms thrown around him in a death grip.

 

“Shh,” he comforted her as he kissed her forehead and stroked her back. “I’m here.” After finally disentangling himself from Sansa he watched with some amusement as Sansa threw her arms around Ghost’s neck instead, the huge direwolf panting happily while his tail wagged back and forth. Turning his gaze back to the Smalljon Jon gestured for the northmen to sit. “For bringing my sister back to me I give you thanks Lord Umber.”

 

The Smalljon shuffled slightly, his large frame not really suited for the gesture. “Technically it was the woman here who rescued her from Bolton’s clutches in Winterfell,” He admitted surly.

 

“Ah,” Jon paused. “Can I assume since you are here and presenting yourself as Lord Umber that your father is no longer with us?”

 

“Aye,” the Smalljon grimaced. “The fucking Freys gave him back to us already, but his lengthy stay in Freys dungeons did him no good, so when he caught the winter chill he passed quickly.”

 

Jon snarled angrily at the mention of Freys, they had killed his brother, broken sacred guest right, forsaken their sworn King. “We’ve all lost friends and kin to the Freys” he said darkly, his hand instinctively caressing the wolf pommel on Longclaw. “So might I enquire as to why you are here at Castle Black with so many men if it wasn’t to bring me back my sister?” Jon asked coldly while locking eyes with the Smalljon.

 

“Wildlings,” the Smalljon admitted finally after breaking away from Jon’s gaze. “I’ve come to hear from your own mouth why you would betray the North and your own family by letting fucking _wildlings_ past the Wall.”

 

Only quick action from Jon stopped Tormund from trying to jump over the table, “ **SIT** ,” he barked at Tormund, the steel in his voice and violent shimmer in his eyes forcing the big red haired man to take a seat, however grudgingly.

 

“Do you know, _My Lord_ , why the Night’s Watch and the Wall was founded?” Jon steepled his hands. “Of course you do, it was founded to protect the Realms of men from the Others.” Jon paused, before looking directly into the Smalljon’s eyes again. “The Long Night is coming My Lord, and the dead come with it.”

 

Both Umbers and their men tried to cram those words down his throat until he stood up and slammed his fist down on the table. “I fought them at Hardhome, a few others fought them at the Fist of the First Men. With naught but a gesture I saw the Night’s King raise near a hundred thousand dead into his army… If I hadn’t permitted the Free Folk though the wall, there would be five or six thousand more in their army.”

 

The Umbers were pale. “ _A hundred thousand,_ ” the Smalljon’s voice was barely above a whisper.

 

“Aye,” Jon said grimly. “And so far, we have only three reliable ways of killing them. Dragonglass, fire or Valyrian steel…” he shot the Smalljon a wry glance, “I don’t suppose you Umbers have been sitting on a large cache of secret Valyrian steel all these years have you?”

 

The Smalljon shook his head, still trying to come to grips with what Jon had told him. “The number of White Walkers isn’t too large I think, and they are not invincible either, I know that for a fact since I slew one at Hardhome, a good friend of mine slew another before that, it’s their dead thralls that is the problem.”

 

“Explain,” the elder Umber barked. Jon wouldn’t name him for fear of getting the wrong one.

 

“They’re dead My Lord,” he explained. “As such they need neither food nor drink, they cannot freeze to death nor can they drown, and they can run, day in and day out. They do not rest, they do not tire, and they do not negotiate.”

 

The hall was silent as a tomb. “But the Wall will hold them,” one of the Umber men said.

 

“Aye the Wall will hold,” Jon agreed. “But Winter will Come,” he said gravely. “What then? When the sea itself freezes? they’ll be able to go to Eastwatch and march right past the Wall as if it wasn’t even there”.

 

“Fuck me,” the Smalljon said, slumping in his seat. “What will you do?”

 

Jon shrugged. “Go south perhaps, get some warmth in me before the final battle comes.”

 

“You can’t leave,” one of the Umber men shouted, barely more than a boy if Jon had to say it. “You’re the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Jon closed his eyes in pain. The horrific scars all over his chest and abdomen didn’t pain him at all, but he could steel feel the phantom ghost of the long daggers piercing his flesh and organs if he thought on it. “Not anymore,” he said.

 

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked curiously.

 

Jon hesitated for a brief moment before starting to loosen the straps on his armour, they’d never believe him without seeing it for their own eyes. With a bit of a hazzle he drew his shirt and mail over his head and stood up straight.

 

“You… you should be _dead_ ,” the Smalljon stuttered while Sansa’s eyes welled up with tears again as she softly trailed the scars with her soft fingers. “Not a one of them didn’t look horrified or dumbstruck.”

 

“I was dead,” Jon said sharply. “The red priestess brought me back,” he said as he gave a nod to Melisandre.

 

“ _How_...” the elder Umber asked.

 

“You can thank Thorne and the other officers for this,” Jon said as he put his shirt back on.

 

“Thorne,” the elder Umber spat. “I remember that cunt, he and a few others stopped by Last Hearth on their way to the Wall after the Rebellion, chose the Black rather than Tywin’s headsman:”

 

“And now he’s dead,” Jon replied as he threw his mail shirt over his head. “I had them all hanged when I woke up.”

 

“So that’s it then?” the Smalljon asked. “You’ve let a bunch of Wildlings past the Wall, and now that you’re no longer part of the Watch you’re just gonna leave, head on south as if nothing has happened and leave the Wildlings for us to deal with?”

 

“The Free Folk and I have an accord,” Jon said coldly. “They’ll leave on these lands in peace, and when the time comes, they’ll fight with me against the Others, tell me, has there been even a single incident since I let them past the Wall?”

 

“No...” the Smalljon admitted after a long pause.

 

“No,” Jon repeated. “And if they keep to themselves and don’t bother you, then it shouldn’t be a problem now should it?”

 

It was a struggle Jon knew. The Smalljon in particular hated the Free Folk and with good reason, both his brothers had been killed in raids years past, and his young sister had been raped to death, a young maid not even two and ten years old. “I know you have plenty of reason to hate the Free Folk My Lord Umber,” Jon said calmly, “You’ve suffered losses from their hands, and they have suffered from ours, as far back as eight thousand years we’ve been killing each other, but now it’s time to stop, if we want to survive this next winter we _all_ need to work together.”

 

It was at that point the doors opened again and one of the brothers of the Watch came in with a sealed scroll carrying sigil of House Bolton. Keeping a lid on his temper Jon unfurled the scroll and started reading.

 

    _"To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,_
    _You allowed thousands of_ _wildlings_ _past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see._
    _I want my_ _bride_ _back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I_ _skin_ _them living. You will watch as my soldiers take turns_ _raping_ _your sister. You will watch as my_ _dogs_ _devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see._

    _Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North"_

Jon let silence reign for a few moments so the message could sink in. “Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North,” he snarled, his hands clenching and unclenching on their own accord, _‘how dare that bastard claim my father’s titles, how dare he threaten to lay a hand on my sister?’_ Jon was almost tempted to find the nearest horse and ride south right at that very instance.

 

“Roose Bolton is dead,” Sansa said, “Ramsay killed him.”

 

“Roose Bolton was a cunt,” the Smalljon added.

 

“How many men do you have?” Jon asked Tormund.

 

“That can fight… perhaps two thousand.”

 

“And you Lord Umber,” Jon turned his gaze back to the Smalljon, “Will you fight with us?”

 

“I...” the Smalljon swallowed. “I’ll never trust a wildling,”

 

“I’m not asking you to trust a fucking wildling,” Jon snarled angrily. “I’m asking you to trust **me.** You bled with Robb, and you bled with my father, now bleed with me,” he said as he held out his hand.

 

For the briefest moment Jon feared that the Smalljon would reject him, but then he seized Jon’s forearm with his own in a tight grip.

 

“The letter,” the elder Umber said suddenly, causing both of the ‘Jon’s’ to look at him strangely. “Show him the **fucking Letter** ,” he backed up his words by giving his younger great nephew a hard whack to the back of his head.

 

Realization dawned in the Smalljon’s eyes and he withdrew a large letter, and unfurled it.

 

“Let it be known that I, Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident do hereby proclaim my brother Jon Snow as my lawful Heir until a son is born to me. By my authority as King I hereby release him from his oath to the Night’s Watch and strip him of the taint of bastardy and name him Prince Jon of the House Stark.

 

Signed, Robb Stark, First of His Name, King in the North and Trident and Lord of Winterfell.”

 

Jon felt his eyes water, all his life he had wanted to be a Stark, and apparently so had his brother, to the point that when having to choose between Sansa and Jon he had chosen Jon to continue his House.

 

“Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover died so that my father could bring this back to the North,” the Smalljon said.

 

“I...” Jon struggled to find the words. He wanted this, _Gods_ he wanted this, but at the same time, Bran was alive, he _knew_ that Bran was alive, and Sansa. Even if they had never been close as siblings, could he really strip her of her birthright just like that? He looked over at Sansa, almost panicked at this point.

 

“ _do it,”_ Sansa whispered. “Do **it**.”

 

“Is this what you want then?” Jon asked the Umbers.

 

“Ramsay Snow is a mad fuck who will flay the whole North for his own amusement,” the Smalljon admitted. “For thousands of years Hosue Umber has kept faith with House Stark, I’ll not be the first to break that faith,” he drew his sword and went to one knee, “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” soon enough the other Umber men men were joining in.

 

“Rise,” Jon said after he managed to calm them down. “We need more men if we are to defeat Bolton,” he turned to Edd. “You know how to work the ravens Edd?”

 

Edd shrugged. “Not really, I might scrounge up someone who does know though.”

 

“Good, I want a raven sent out to every House in the North asking for their allegiance.”

 

“Your Grace,” the elder of the two Umbers interjected. “Might I suggest you visit some of the Houses in person? It will be easier that way.”

 

Jon scratched his chin in thought. “We don’t have time to visit every House in the North,” he admitted. “If you take that with you, will you be able to convince Lord Manderly?” he asked as he held out Robb’s will.

 

“I just might,” the older Umber said. “I’ve known Wyman since the time when he could actually see his own cock when taking a piss.”

 

Jon snorted, that must have been some time again. “I thank you...” he paused, remembering now that he still couldn’t discern if it was ‘Whoresbane’ or ‘Crowfood’ he was talking to.

 

“Hother Umber, Your Grace,” the old man said with a grin.

 

“Yes,“ Jon nodded. “Get my Lord Wyman’s support, in the meantime I’ll finish up my affairs here and go to the Mountain Clans, I assume you can spare a few men to accompany Ser Davos and my Sister to Bear Island and Deepwood Motte?”

 

The Smalljon nodded. “And what of me?”

 

“The sigil of your House is a giant breaking his chains is it not?”

 

“Aye.”

 

Jon grinned. “How would you like the honour of being the first man in thousands of years to commission armour to be made for a giant?”

 

The Smalljon’s eyes widened as he remembered Wun Wun who had been the one to open the door to the castle. “Fuck me...” he said before breaking out in laughter. “Ramsay’s gonna shit himself when he sees a fucking giant clad in steel from head to toe.”

 

“Good, then we have a plan for now, I suggest we all get some rest, tomorrow the work begins, I suppose you’ll host us for the night Edd?”

 

Edd sighed, as he often did. “Not like I have the men to stop you,” he grumbled, then turned to Sansa and her large woman protector, “Come with me My Ladies, we don’t have many good rooms here, but you’ll have the best ones we can spare.”

 

Sansa gave Jon an uncertain look, torn between staying with him and going to a bed and hopefully a bath. “Go with her Ghost,” Jon commanded and the big direwolf eagerly trotted up beside Sansa, his head already rubbing against her in hopes of more petting.

 

“So You gonna make us kneelers too now King Crow?” Tormund asked with a wide grin.

 

“Would it work?” Jon asked drily.

 

Tormund laughed while Val snorted contemptuously, “Of course not,” she said.

 

Jon nodded, “There you have it. I don’t enter battles I can’t win unless I have to.”

 

Tormund gave Jon a hearty slap on the back. “Well you go and do your kingly stuff King Crow, I’m gonna go see if I can’t steal that big woman,” and then, to the amazement of Jon and Val he was sauntering off with a spring in his step.

 

“She’s going to fucking murder him isn’t she?” Jon asked Val.

 

Val let out an uncharacteristic giggle. “From the way she was looking at him… he’s either gonna be the happiest man in the world tomorrow, or he’ll be making the rest of us miserable as we try to patch him together.”

 

Jon snorted, “Knowing Tormund, he’ll probably fall even harder for her if she does beat him up.”

 

“Aye there is that,” Val agreed, they had reached his chambers by now. “And you King Crow?” Val asked as she lightly pushed him into his room and closed the door behind her. “No Queen for you?”

 

By the Gods it was difficult to keep control of himself. His cock was already hard and pounding in his britches, and he could smell her heady arousal waft from underneath her dress. Could almost hear the swift ‘thump thump’ of her heartbeat, and this time Jon had no intention of holding back…

 

 

 

**LEMON! LEMON! LEMON!**

 

 

Snarling angrily he almost leapt at Val, the speed of his ‘assault’ surprising even her. Taking hold of her dress he fisted it and yanked his hands to the side, tearing the dress in two. He almost started drooling as Val’s body was revealed to him. Her pale skin held a few scars, that, rather than mar her simply added to her beauty, her large teats, capped by soft pink nipples that begged to be touched, and let it not be said that Jon was a man who would refuse a woman in need unless he had to.

 

No sooner had he taken her teats in his hands before she drove her fist into the side of his face and then tried to deliver another punch. “So you want me to do this properly?” Jon asked angrily as he caught her arms and locked them both together. “You _want_ me to steal you Val?” he purred as he kissed and bit all over her throat and neck.

 

“Please,” she begged, even though she was trying her best to squirm out of his grip, stomping her feet on his own, biting him or squirming like a trapped animal.

 

Jon wasn’t having any of it though. With a grunt of effort he threw her onto the bed and crushed her underneath his own weight, his left hand seized her long honey blonde tresses in a tight grip while his right fumbled at his belt and trousers. After another brief moment of struggle he finally released his cock out of the confines of his trousers.

 

A bit of struggled shifting ensued as Jon tried to reposition Val, eventually forcing her up on all fours, with her legs spread wide. “Do you want this?” Jon whispered in her hear as he bit hard enough to draw blood from her neck. Taking a brief moment to spit on his hand he lowered it between Val’s legs to caress her cunt. There was no need, she was moist as a waterfall, her cunt almost weeping in preparation for what was to come.

 

Val moaned in complaint as he removed his hand, her rear bumping back against Jon’s pelvis in hope of getting _something_. “I won’t do it until you ask me,” Jon said harshly.

 

“ **Fuck Me**!” Val begged finally, no longer capable, or willing to draw it out.

 

“Gladly,” Jon said huskily as he lined up his cock with her lower lips and with one hard thrust he burrowed his cock into her moist heat, all the way to the root. **“FUCK!”** they both screamed in unison as Jon withdrew until only the head of his cock remained trapped between her lips and then shoved forward again.

 

Sex with Ygritte had been fun, playful, slow and passionate, at least for her. For Jon it had been good, but also a necessary evil, tinged with fear and shame of being found out, but _this_ , here and now with Val. This was just straight out fucking. He slammed his cock in and out of her wet cunt as hard and fast as he could while keeping her hair in a fight grip. _‘Just like a wolf taking his bitch,’_ Jon thought savagely as he released the grip he had on Val’s hair and grabbed her throat instead, forcing her backwards until she stood upright on her spread knees, her neck leaned back and resting atop Jon’s shoulder while his right hand massaged and pinched Val’s teats. Another three thrusts and he screamed loudly as he painted her womb white with his seed.

 

“Over already?” Val asked, her chest and face flushed red, and her heavy breaths doing marvellous things to Jon’s libido as he watched her inviting teats rise up and down.

 

Grinning slightly Jon slowly withdrew his cock, enjoying the whimpers she released as a result of the friction. Instead of laying down beside her as her other lovers might have done Jon lifted her up and almost slammed her against the nearest wall. “You think you can keep going?” she asked doubtfully, though the sultry glint in her eyes told another tale, she _wanted_ this. Lining his cock up with her cunt He sheathed himself anew, and let out a bestial grunt, though unintelligible the meaning was clear, _**‘mine.’**_

 

**END LEMON! END LEMON! END LEMON!**

 

**Daenerys Targaryen:**

 

Dany snared at the pathetic Khals before her. What did they know of ruling? Or Conquering? Year after year it was the same old story. Argue like a pair of bitches over what little defenceless town they would raid, or which Free City they would ask tribute from. The only adversity they ever faced were the occasional rival khalasar or this or that prospecting sellsword company foolish enough to think they could make a name for themselves by breaking a dothraki horde.

 

“I expect you to die,” she said simply after they had finished mocking her. They would burn in flame, just like the witch who murdered her husband, and she would smile as they did so. Giving them a wicked grin she quickly tipped over first one, and then another brazier of burning coal and oil. Immediately they started to panic as the oil and coals ignited the dry wood and rugs in the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. Every one of them ran to the door and tried in vain to open it but to no avail, the Dosh Khaleen had barred it from the outside. Stepping slowly toward them she tipped over the other two braziers.

 

The Khals screamed in agony as fire washed over them while she stood there watching. ‘ _Understandable,_ ’ She thought as she wiped sweat from her brow. It was hot inside, even for her. It wasn’t until she started to cough from all the smoke the she realized that something was wrong. She had felt neither the heat, nor the choking sensation of smoke when she stepped into Khal Drogo’s pyre, so why did she feel it now? The heat was becoming unbearable now and she let out a whimper of pain as the flames licked ever closer, it was becoming difficult to even stay conscious at this point, the heat was overwhelming and the smoke was choking the life out of her. ‘ _I am the Blood of the Dragon,’_ she thought with panic, ‘ _fire cannot harm a dragon,’_ if fire could truly harm a dragon she never found out as with a final groaning sound the roof collapsed upon her and all went black…

 

**Drogon**

 

Drogon let out a roar in fury as he felt the bond with mother snap and go cold. Mother was gone he knew, always it had been there, strong and shining like a beacon, while another, much fainter shone from far away. He had tried to tell mother that another was far away, a brother? Cousin? Drogon didn’t know, but Drogon was a good dragon, and he knew mother felt alone, so when he saved mother from the men with the nasty sticks he had tried to fly her to this other, stopping only to rest and mother had wandered off after scolding him, and now mother was dead.

 

He flew even faster towards where he had last felt mother, perhaps it was a trick, perhaps mother was just playing a trick on him and was still alive. He raced through the skies until he finally came upon a large place of man people, man people who rode lovely four legs, horses mother called them. Succulent meat that tasted good, almost as good as the other four legs things that mother called goats.

 

In the very centre of the man place a large fire roared into the night and Drogon let out a roar of anguish that shook the very ground. It wasn’t a trick, mother was dead, he could smell mother burning in the fire.

 

Angrily he turned his head towards the ground and let out a blast of flame, hundreds of man things burned to ash and dozens of their man cages caught aflame.

 

Screams of panic greeted him on his next flyby as he incinerated hundreds more. Mother was  ** dead ** why should he care for their screams. Mother was dead and these two legs had killed her. Landing in the middled of a large number of people he flattened a dozen with his body. 

 

His tail lashed out, smashing three man cages to kindling while his neck shot forth and  ** ‘Bite Bite’ ** his claws  ** ‘Slash Slash’  ** and he let out another blast of  ** ‘Fire’ ** he  ** ‘Burn Burn’  ** and  ** ‘Bite Bite’ ** again and again. Mother was dead and he would punish the two legs who had killed her. It wasn’t until it was light and the sky fire had risen that Drogon flew away, the man place completely destroyed and thousands upon thousands of two legs were burned to ashes. 

 

It was annoying, his body itched uncomfortably from where the two legs had hit him with hundreds of their small flying metal teeth, but all of this paled in comparison that mother was dead. His brothers knew too, he could feel them already, flying to meet him again. Perhaps mother had let them free before she died, or perhaps they had freed themselves.

 

The sky fire had almost gone to sleep again when Drogon met his brothers. Roars of joy and sorrow was shared. Mother was dead but they were together again. Rhaegal wanted to fly back to the man place they had lived before, while Viserion just wanted to follow Drogon. An argument almost ensued, Drogon having to give five whole roars and two blasts of flame before Rhaegal agreed that perhaps flying away to find the cousin or brother they had never met but all felt faintly was a good idea. Mother had always wanted to got that way in any case, often talking with the white haired two legs and staring that way into the distance, well, mother was dead, so it was up to Drogon to follow mother’s wishes, Drogon was good dragon.

 

While Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion were flying away towards Westeros, Jorah Mormont and Daario Naharis were riding back towards Mereen in silence. Daenerys Targaryen was dead, done in by the fires that had given her three dragons a few years past. In some parts Jorah blamed himself, had not Targaryens died of fire before? Aerion Brightflame who burned to death after drinking wildfire, or Princess Rhaenys, the Queen-Who-Never-Was who burnt to dead in dragonfire during the Dance of Dragons, and now Daenerys had joined their company, and with her House Targaryen had seen its end. All he knew was that he had to return to Mereen as swiftly as possible, not only to inform Grey Worm and Missandei, but also to warn them all that Drogon was now free and without any hope of a rider to tame him.

 

 

**Jon Stark:**

 

It had been three weeks since he had been proclaimed King in the North, first by Jon and Hothor Umber, and then again the very next morning by the rest of their men at Castle Black. Since then he had been busy. Before leaving for Last Hearth and White Harbour the Smalljon had informed him and Sansa that Rickon was alive and well at Last Hearth. Sansa had disappeared to Moles Town for a bit and then returned, informing him that her great uncle Brynden ‘The Blackfish’ Tully had reformed the Tully army and was holding Riverrun. They had sent him a letter, but with chances high that the raven would be shot down Sansa had also dispatched Brienne south to try and convince the Blackfish in person to come to their aid. Sansa had then left for Bear Island with Ser Davos and fifty stout Umber men while Jon had to deal with the Free Folk and the Mountain Clans.

 

Despite their intense dislike of each other they were a remarkably similar people who valued much of the same things. Food and good steel was valued higher than gold, and Jon’s promise that come winter any man, woman or child would be welcome in Winterfell and Winter Town along with food had swayed the fierce Mountain Clans to his side. He had advised Stannis to seek out the Mountain Clans too, but Stannis had not done so apparently.

 

There had been a few fights and complaints once they learned that they would be fighting alongside wildlings, to the point that Jon himself actually had to face old Torghen Flint and Hubo ‘Big Bucket’ Wull in a wrestling match. Though wrestling was a poor word for it, straight out brawling was far more fitting for two men pounding each other with feet, fists and teeth. Jon had no chance to defeat either of them in a fistfight and he knew it, but he also understood them well enough to know that beating them wasn’t the point. So he acquitted himself as best he could while the two clansmen did their best to turn his body into one large bruise, he grit his teeth and took his licks and won them over, at any rate he had Val to warm his bed at night, though with how painful his bruises were he wouldn’t have minded if she fussed over him a bit, but that wasn’t Val, and he wouldn’t change her either.

 

He had been pleasantly surprised though at the number of men, who wanted to fight for ‘The Jon’ as they started calling him. Nearly every man above thirty, men who come winter would oft ‘Go out hunting’ and never seen again, as well as a large amount of younger lads as well, and Jon almost despaired when he saw the numbers. He knew that Robb had ridden south with a host gathered in all haste to save their father, but why hadn’t he called for more men when it became apparent that he would need the full might of the North? Jon had in his growing army Wulls, Liddles, Flints and Norreys, Harclays and Burleys. Near four thousand men from the Mountain Clans, though it would take near a month to gather them all, the majority of them marching towards Last Hearth where they would meet up with the Umbers and the near two thousand of the Free Folk who had agreed to fight with Jon.

 

Unbeknownst to Jon, the first step to forging a lasting peace with the Free Folk had been started with him. Umbers and Clansmen, all saw how Jon treated the Free Folk, and how they treated him in return. None kneeled to him, but most bowed a head respectfully and called him ‘King Crow’ or ‘King Stark’ a few of the surviving Thenns called him Magnar even, having witnessed first hand how he had killed a Walker, and as the way of men, the tale of how he had been stabbed by half a dozen knives and returned from beyond the grave to reclaim the North had spread like wildfire, though the last time Jon heard the tale it had been an even dozen knives and he had returned as vengeful as a direwolf and torn the hearts of the mutineers out of their chests with his bare hands. He’d tried to stop it… for a day or two but given it up as a bad job, preferring instead to either spend time between the furs with Val, or walking through camp, sharing a few words with a man here or there, a lesson he had learned from his father. ‘These men might one day fight and die for you, make certain they know why they do so’ he had told Jon and Robb.

 

And lastly there was Val. As with Ygritte there was no defining their relationship. He was hers and she was his, that was how he defined it at least, and with how she kept returning to his bed he assumed she felt the same. Jon sharing his bed with a ‘wildling’ had also inspired some of the younger men who were still not as biased to try the same. There had been a fair few amount of bruises, broken teeth and throbbing balls, but there were also a fair few young lads who had managed to ‘steal’ himself a spearwife, and shared tankards of ale and smoked meat around the fires at night helped bring out a tentative camaraderie between the men, and they all united against a common hatred. The Boltons. Even north of the Wall the Flayed man was infamous, and served as a common foe to unite against.

 

Not everything was just gold and sunshine though. While Sansa had been successful in recruiting the Mormonts, she had no such luck with the Glovers. Between the two of them it was only Davos’ heartfelt words that had swayed young Lyanna Mormont into promising them two and sixty men, a number that increased by four hundred when Alysanne Mormont and her two younger sisters Lyra and Jorelle returned to Bear Island, having sailed north from the Saltspear in stolen Ironborn longships. At the same time a raven had reached them from White Harbour. Lord Wyman had pledged his men to his force, Lord Wyman boasting that he commanded more heavy horse than the rest of the North combined and Jon did not doubt it, one of Lord Manderly’s nephew’s cousin or other Ser Maron Manderly leading a force North consisting of five hundred Knights and three thousand horsemen, cald in mail and plate with long lances at their disposal.

 

The Ryswells, Dustins and Karstarks however joined with Ramsay Snow. The Karstarks no doubt joined because Robb has beheaded Rickard Karstark, though Rickard’s sole daughter Alys had fled to their side when her brother and acting lord of the Karhold Harald Karstark had attempted to marry her off to their ‘uncle’ Cregan, though supposedly he was their father’s cousin, but they had always called him uncle. The Ryswells and Dustins however had joined due to Lady Barbrey Dustin’s dislike of Eddard Stark and because her sister Bethany Bolton, formerly Ryswell had been married to Roose Bolton.

 

“Another week, two at the most Your Grace and we’ll be prepared to march on Winterfell,” the Smalljon said as he, Jon, Val, Hugo Wull, Tormund, Sansa, Davos and Alysanne Mormont were gathered in the great hall in Last Hearth, an old map of the North in faded ink on a worn deerskin was spread out on a table with small stones painted with symbols to represent the various forces at their disposal.

 

“Bah,” Tormund scoffed. “We have strength enough to march now if we wanted it.”

 

“Aye we could,” Jon agreed. “But wait another week and we get three and a half thousand heavy horse,” Jon turned his gaze upon Tormund. “You remember what Stannis did to Mance’s army don’t you?”

 

Tormund grumbled. “He cut right through us like piss through snow.”

 

“That he did,” Jon agreed. “And while we have more men than Ramsay and his allies we are about even I think when it comes to heavy horse, at least if we march without the Manderlys.”

 

“Are you certain he’ll face us on an open field?” Alysanne asked.

 

“No,” Jon admitted. “But we have a giant which will make a siege into a short affair, and for all Ramsay knows I might know some secret entrance into Winterfell that I will sneak my army into during the night.”

 

“Is there?” Val asked.

 

Jon shook his head. “If there is my father never informed me, but Ramsay does not know that does he?” he sighed. “It’s a poor man’s bet at any rate, I certainly can’t say how Ramsay thinks, all I know is that he would not keep near two thousand horsemen in Winterfell if he did not intend to use them.” Jon rubbed his eyes, the hour was late and he had been awake since before sunrise dealing with this issue or that. At first he had attempted to do everything himself, until Lady Alysanne had threatened to box his ears in with her mace if he didn’t start delegating responsibility to others as well, such as Ser Davos and the Smalljon who had both fought in wars before and actually knew something of military strategy. “You are quite certain that the Dreadfort is ours?” Jon asked the Smalljon again to be certain.

 

“Aye,” the big man replied. “Roose would never leave it so undefended but Ramsay is from a different cloth, he must have almost emptied the garrison as there was barely a hundred men left to hold it when old Flint showed up with twelve hundred men.”

 

“Gnarly old bastard didn’t even have to fight for it,” Hugo Wull laughed, “Damn smallfolk were just as happy as the guards to be under new management I think.”

 

The ease at which they had taken and garrisoned the Dreadfort had raised the spirits of the men, and was a hard blow to Ramsay, the letter Jon had sent after, offering Ramsay the chance to take the Black before Jon came to take _another_ castle from him must be stinging the sadistic bastard’s pride. “Right,” Jon said as he let out a big yawn. “That’s enough for today, we can continue this on the morrow.”

 

Everyone else seemed to be of the same mind and started to pack up and head towards their rooms. “Come Jon,” Val said as she grabbed his hand, “We’ll see if I won’t be the one stealing you tonight.”

 

Jon laughed when he saw the somewhat disgusted look on Sansa’s face and the irritated huff she released. The morning after Jon and Val had fucked for the first time Sansa had approached him and told him plainly that, he was her brother and she loved him, but she _never_ wanted to know what he was doing in his bedchambers ever again, it was at that point that Jon realized that Sansa’s room was right next to his, in fact, the wall they shared was the same wall that Jon had fucked Val up against, the same wall that the headboard of Sansa’s bed stood against. Since then Sansa had eventually stopped going green whenever Val made an inappropriate comment, as long as she had rooms as far away from Jon’s as possible.

 

“Just don’t wake Rickon,” Sansa said sternly after realizing that no amount of huffing and puffing would discourage her elder brother and his _lover_.

 

“Fuck,” Jon grumbled. Sansa had probably quite deliberately ensured that Jon’s room was next to Rickon’s, and while Rickon was near enough to start becoming a man, at one and ten he still had a few years yet hopefully before Jon would have to sit him down and give him a certain talk about girls and what he could, should and should not do. It had been bad enough when their father sat Jon and Robb down after their tenth and second nameday, but never had Jon thought that he would have to be the one to do the same for his youngest brother. He and Robb had japed that in this one instance they would do as Theon had done and simply take first Bran and then Rickon when his turn came to a brothel so they could see with their own eyes, but now it had all fallen on Jon. Robb and father were both dead, and Bran was lost to him beyond the Wall, he could only hope that he would find his way back.

 

Finally joining Val underneath the furs he kissed her softly while gently easing himself in between her legs, pumping slowly in and out they kissed and nipped gently at each other, their tongues duelling while their bodies engaged in the oldest dance in the world.

 

**Riverrun. The Blackfish:**

 

Brynden took a small sip from his tankard of ale while checking his fishing pole. He was seated in his favourite chair on the battlements of Riverrun, staring out on the Lannister and Frey forces. _‘What’s this?’_ he thought to himself as he watched one of the newly arrived Lannister men step closer to the castle, heedless of the Frey men who were shouting hurriedly at the man to step back. With an economy of movement that is only gained through decades of honing one's craft, Brynden gripped his longbow, put an arrow on the string and drew back, mere moments later and the man toppled over, dead from the arrow in his neck.

 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” the great beast of a woman who had come to be his surrender asked him.

 

“I’ve not made my decision yet woman,” Brynden replied as he sat down into his chair one more, giving a merry wave towards the Frey and Lannister men who were hurling insults at him. The Freys had learned quickly to not step within reach of Brynden’s bow, and most likely the Lannisters would learn too.

 

“Lord Brynden,” Brienne tried again. “Your niece and nephew need your help.”

 

“Pah,” Brynden snorted. “They have their brother don’t they?” he asked. He’d never trusted Jon Snow, Cat’s influence no doubt, yet common wisdom showed that bastards were tricky things, and he’d been as opposed as Cat had been when Robb decided to make Jon Snow his heir.

 

“Yes, but more men will never go amiss,” she continued.

 

“And what of Riverrun My Lady?” he asked sharply. “Riverrun is my home, it took a great deal of blood to take back this castle.”

 

“And now you don’t have the men to hold it,” Brienne said. “Ser Jaime will not wait two years, he’ll take the castle by storm and you’ve gained nothing.” She took a deep breath. “Go north with the Tully forces and the King will help you take back your castle.”

 

“Oh the King in the North will help me will he?” Brynden asked sceptically. “What does he owe me? I share no blood with the lad and my niece treated him horridly.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Brienne grumbled. “I don’t know King Jon much better than you do, but I know he is an honourable man, and if not for you, he’ll retake it for his brother and sister.”

 

Brynden wanted to believe her, he really did. That not only was Sansa safe, but that Rickon too was alive. At the very least he had ruled out Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick being Lannister spies. They had described his youngest great nephew’s direwolf to a tee, and the letter Sansa had written him reminded him painfully of her mother. ‘King Jon’s own letter had been much the same as his father, short and to a point, asking for the Blackfish to help him support House Stark’s influence in return for retaking the Riverlands. All of his instincts were screaming at him to refuse, that Jon Snow was not to be trusted, but what option did he have? If the Kingslayer did decide to storm the castle it was lost at any rate, but if he accepted Ser Jaime’s offer he could live to fight another day.

 

“Fine,” he sighed after finally making his decision. “Tell the Kingslayer that I’ll accept his offer. I’ll yield the castle in return for safe passage for me and my men.”

 

Brienne beamed, pleased at having been useful to her Lady no doubt and sped off towards the gate. The moment she was out of hearing Brynden turned to one of his serjants. “Have the men gather as much food and drink as we can carry. Ready horses and carriages and load them up.”

 

“And the rest of the food and drink?”

 

Brynden gave a nasty grin that caused a few of the men to shiver. “Poison the lot of it, we should have enough from the Maester’s stores. If the Freys and Lannisters mean to feast in my castle they can damn well bring their own food.”

 

**Ser Jaime:**

 

Hours later, Ser Jaime watched with horror as nine out of ten men in the great hall went into convulsions, some spewing up blood while others cried out in pain as they shat blood. The door to the great hall slammed open and old and young men, and even a few women, dressed as servants, cooks and washerwomen poured into the hall with crossbows in their arms.

 

The first barrage took care of well over half of the men still standing, while a second volley killed a few more. And then Jaime spotted both Ser Edmure and the Blackfish stride into the hall, swords drawn. “We meet again Kingslayer,” the Blackfish said smugly.

 

“Fuck,” Jaime cursed with resignation as he raised his hands over his head, Bronn soon following him.

 

“I didn’t know about you, but I knew the Freys wouldn’t resist feasting grandly on our stores,” the Blackfish said with a smile as two Tully men at arms tied Jaime’s arms behind his back. “Can’t believe that I owe thanks to the Freys for their generosity.”

 

Jaime swallowed, and gave thanks to whatever Gods there were that he’d refrained from eating or drinking, but he’d been one of the few. The many casks of ale and salted pork had been carried out to the besieging army in preparation for a big feast, while the nobly born had reserved the finer wines, fruits and meats for their own table inside Hoster Tully’s hall. “How many?” Jaime asked numb.

 

“Oh thousands,” Brynden said as if he was speaking of the weather. Not as many died as I’d hoped, but enough were so ill that it wasn’t even a challenge to beat them. We only took the one camp I’m afraid, but with so many new ‘guests’ I’m quite sure we can make the rest of your besieging army turn tail, I’ve already sent out messengers to the Mallisters and Blackwoods and all other Houses in the Riverlands, Jaime Lannister and all of Walder’s grown sons are in my custody, your father may have bled us harshly in the war, but I bet I can still summon up a good ten or even fifteen thousand men in a moon’s turn.”

 

Jaime’s heart sank. When the war had first started the Riverlands were capable of summoning perhaps as many as forty thousand men, only his father’s armies being inside the Riverlands when the war started had prevented the Riverlands from fully marshalling their forces, and now, they only had Walder Frey, the Houses sworn directly to the crossing and the Brackens to contend with, the rest would either hold their men back or at the very least supply the Blackfish with food and steel. The Westerlands were unlikely to help at least. Beside himself he counted Ser Daven Lannister, Lyle Crakehall and Addam Marbrand among the captured, and who knows how many others were either dead or captured. _‘_ _I just know that Cersei is going to blame this one me,’_ was Jaime’s last thought before Edmure’s steel clad fist turned the world black for Jaime…

 

**Winterfell: Jon Stark.**

 

“ Is the man an idiot?” Jon asked the Smalljon as he saw that Ramsay Snow was actually meeting them in the field. Row upon row of men and riders, bearing the sigils of the Boltons, Karstarks, Dustins and Ryswells were arrayed before them while Jon’s own forces were lined up behind him.

 

“The man is cunning,” the Smalljon admitted. “But not a conventional military thinker.”

 

“So what then?” Jon asked, “Do we just charge? Bring our greater number of horses to bear?”

 

“A wise man lets his opponent make the first move,” Ser Davos said grimly. “Stannis sailed his full fleet into the Blackwater without thought and lost most of his ships and men to the Imp’s wildfire.”

 

“Your smuggler has the truth of it,” Alysanne Mormont agreed. “The pressure is on Ramsay to make a good impression on his allies, better to let him make the first move.”

 

“Thank you for your council,” Jon said as he gave each of them a short nod. He was glad for it, he was a fighter and mayhap even a leader, but he was no tactician or general, that’s what he had advisors for. One of the few pieces of advice he had taken to heart from Stannis during their conversations was of the importance of knowing one’s faults, and how one should delegate to make up for it.

 

Another hour passed with nothing happening, the soldiers in both armies coldly trying to stare their foes down, Ramsay at least was cunning enough to not just charge in recklessly as had been Jon’s first thoughts, and only the advice of his allies had stopped Jon from simply drawing his sword and yelling ‘CHARGE’.

 

“Come on, come on,” the Smalljon muttered beside him, “Charge you sick fuck.”

 

“We need to make him angry,” Jon said, “He won’t bite otherwise.”

 

“Oh just make him angry?” Tormund interjected. “Why didn’t you just say so,” and then To the complete bafflement of everyone, the large wildling strode forth a few feet towards the Bolton army, turned around, dropped his breeches and bent over and screamed loudly while he tauntingly slapped the cheeks of his bared arse.

 

“I’ll be buggered,” The Smalljon said as he tried to keep his laughter at bay, “the goatfucker’s on to something,” and then the Smalljon had dismounted, dropped his own breeches and was proudly letting his pecker wave around as he jerked his hips this way and that.

 

“RIGHT LADS,” Jon yelled. “TORMUND AND THE SMALLJON HAVE THE RIGHT OF IT, LET*S SEE IF SOME ARSE OR PECKER WON’T SCARE THEM OFF!”

 

And with a great roar of laughter and jubilation hundreds, if not thousands stepped forth and started to laugh or shout insults while proudly displaying the pale bared arse cheeks or peckers to the opposing army.

 

It took less than five minutes for Ramsay to crack. Even above the din of the ruckus his men made, Jon could hear the sheer rage and frustration that Ramsay let out when his arrow fell short,  and mere moments after Ramsay had mounted his horse and put it into a frantic gallop towards Jon’s battle line. Horns blasted and men screamed as Bolton soldiers followed their Lord, and then before Jon could even give an order to his archers, men and horses started to fall.

 

The line of Karstarks, Ryswells and Dustins had followed the charge, for a few moments before stopping still and drawing their bows and sent volley after volley into the back of Ramsay’s own men, the Bolton banners that had been flying proudly among them had been dropped to the muddy ground and the grey direwolf of House Stark flew in its stead.

 

Jon signalled for Ser Davos to order a volley. Two thousand shafts of steel tipped wood flew through the air and landed among Ramsay’s charging men. Two more volleys followed and then it was over. The remaining Bolton men had stopped cold, their swords and spears thrown to the ground, while a frothing Ramsay was held tight by four of his men and brought slowly over to Jon. Soon enough a few riders joined them from the other side of the battlefield.  Rodrick Ryswell, his sons and his daughter Barbrey the Lady Dustin were expected, it was their leader however that was unexpected.

 

Tall as most northmen with a thick brown beard, his face was gaunt and hollowed but strength still shone in those eyes. “Harrion Karstark,” Jon said. “Last I heard you were a prisoner in Maidenpool and your brother Harald was Lord of Karhold.”

 

“Aye,” Harrion Karstark said. “I was, but my sister Alys impressed upon Lord Wyman to pay my ransom in return for taking his oldest grand daughter to wife.” He looked down at the screaming and struggling Ramsay and spat in his face. “I’ll never forget that your brother took my father’s head, but I’ll sooner burn Karhold to the ground before serving a Bolton.”

 

“And you My Lord?” Jon asked Lord Rodrick, “What made you turn your back on the Boltons?”

 

Rodrick grimaced. “The North Remembers,” he said. “We named your brother King, we lost friends at the Twins just as everyone else here, and this  _ bastard _ killed my daughter and grandson both with poison, this was  ** justice ** .”

 

Jon nodded slowly as he searched their faces for any sign of deception. “I thank you My Lords, House Stark owes you a debt.” He dismounted from his horse and stood in front of Ramsay. He was tempted to tear him limb from lib with his bare hands for what he had done to Sansa, or perhaps even have Ghost eat him, but he was of the North, and theirs was the old way. “Davos,” he barked. “Bring me a block.”

 

The only sound around was the nervous whinny of horses, and the curses from Ramsay. Soon enough two men came hustling over with a large block of wood. The men holding Ramsay pushed him down and shifted so that his head was free.

 

Jon slowly drew Longclaw and planted it in the ground before Ramsay. “Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of the Dreadfort, in the name of my father Ned Stark, and my brother Robb Stark, King in the North hereby find you guilty of treason and sentence you to die, if you have any last words, now is the time,” he said softly, his face blank and voice as cold as ice.

 

“CURSE YOU BASTARD,” Ramsay screamed. “I FUCKED YOUR SISTER, I FUCKED HER TILL SHE SCREAMED AND I ONLY REGRET THA-” Ramsay’s words were cut off abruptly as Longlaw sliced through his neck. His head rolled on the ground while blood squirted from the stump of his neck.

 

Jon trembled in rage, barely keeping himself from using Longclaw to hew Ramsay’s corpse into tiny pieces.

 

The Smalljon was the first to draw his sword and thrust it into the air, “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” His shout was quickly taken up by the rest of the army, Lords Rodrick and Harrion joining in too, thousands of men screaming “KING IN THE NORTH! KING IN THE NORTH!”

 

It was at that point that a trio of alien roars sounded and to the amazement and fear of most three large dragons dove and landed with a loud ‘THUMP’ before Jon, sniffing him and studying him curiously, the largest of them, a great big black beast almost toppled him to the ground as it rubbed its scaly snout against Jon’s chest.

 

Completely bewildered Jon looked at the men and women near him, their mouths were just as agape in confusion as his was no doubt. “What the fuck?” he asked bewildered.

 

Only one person, Lady Barbrey to be precise seemed to be capable of thought and her face swiftly changed from wonder to thoughtful before a look of rage finally settled. “REEEEEEEEEED!”

 

 

**End of part one.**

 

**AN:**

 

**Ok, so this was supposed to be a oneshot, but swiftly ran away from me. I wrote this partially to indulge my ever loving need to write more ‘crack’ and also to adress some issues I have with the show *coughfireprooftargaryenscough* as well as to explore how things might or might not have turned out if characters from the books were not cut from the show. Or how other things might have played out differently.**

 

**Like the Siege of Riverrun for example. In the show the Blackfish gets killed off screen, while in the books he escapes with Robb’s still living wife if I’m not mistaken. Here instead he poisoned the food/drink in Riverrun. Left behind half his troops disguised as common servants with weapons hidden away. His own forces waited till nightfall before assaulting one of the camps where men were either ill from the poisoned food/drink or dead. I choose to not have too many die from the poison on account of the poison being diluted in the large amounts of food/drink, still potent enough to cripple them once it kicked in.**

 

**Now I’m sure that as always there’ll be a few people complaining about this or that, how things wouldn’t have happened this or that way, how some or all the characters are ooc or mary sues or what else people complain about in my fics. Well, in case people haven’t gotten the message by now, I like to write ‘crack’ good guys win, bad guys lose, protagonist gets laid that sort of thing. If anyone have a problem with that, ah well, we’re all entitled to our own opinions.**

 

**Stay tuned for part two soon enough, and no I haven’t forgotten my other fics either, I am working on them.**

 

**Progress on my other fics:**

**Bloody Wolf: 20% of next chapter**

**Dragon Queen Reborn: 30-35% of next chapter**

**From the Ashes: 10% of next chapter**

**Black Dragon: 40% of next chapter.**

 

**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys.**


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